


Mind of the Host

by fewlmewn



Series: Original Stories [12]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannibalism, Cults, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Giant Spiders, Mentions of enucleation, Mind Control, Other, Paralysis, Spiders, mentions of amputation, xe/xyr/xem pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:54:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21771781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fewlmewn/pseuds/fewlmewn
Summary: She will guide us to victory, She will lead us to unmaking reality.
Relationships: Main Character/Ezzan
Series: Original Stories [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1043202





	Mind of the Host

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Arachnids, amputation, eye trauma, vore, mind control.
> 
> Companion piece to [Ascension](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21785401)

Weaver Neshaye approaches the stretcher, soaked through with Ezzan’s blood, dark and wet, among that of many other soldiers. Xe is missing both arms, the love of my life, and lays dead, unmoving. Xyr muscles don’t twitch like in sleep, and the eyelids don’t flutter like hungry moths. Xyr eyes are but empty, blackened holes, and I can scarcely look at xyr face.

I open my mouth and with a hoarse, unpracticed voice I croak, still hopeful, “S- scorpion?”

The Weaver shuffles on her feet, uncomfortable, and shakes her head. Then, without moving her withered lips, a voice inside my head replies, “Worse. The Awakening claimed xem. The priests of Illinor ripped xem from our world and did this in theirs. Xe won’t be able to return. I’m sorry for your loss.”

I begin to shake, stinging tears that feel like sand start pouring down my face. I wheeze in between sobs, unaccustomed to the rush of stale air touching the inside of my mouth, making my gums ache.

When I’m done, now a snot-covered, tear-streaked mess in a heap on the crypt’s floor, Weaver Neshaye’s shapeless robe moves, and she places a clothed hand over my head.

“Let’s begin,” echoes between my pounding ears, and Ezzan and I are led deeper into the temple, to the Sanctum.

Her funeral vestments part, and out comes a shriveled, skeletal hand. Each finger is capped by a metal thimble, smooth and sharp and near as long as the rest of her hand.

In silence and complete darkness, the fingers move over Ezzan’s body and begin to pry xyr lips apart. The jaw is stiff, but with some effort it finally snaps open. The Weaver’s thumb holds down the pale, limp lower lip while fore and middle finger disappear inside xyr mouth. At first, the metal feels around Ezzan’s tongue, engorged and swollen with blood until that, too, is moved aside to let Weaver Neshaye delve further. We both go very still for several moments until,

“Lay down, now.”

I obey the voice in my head and scramble to climb atop the stone slab next to Ezzan’s. My gaze is fixed upon the Weaver and, no matter how much I try, I can’t take my eyes off of what she’s doing. My stomach lurches in fear at the thought of what’s about to happen.

Then, I see it. A slender, ribbed thorax with eight joints connecting to eight segmented, twisting legs. The spider is struggling, clinging to the warmth left inside Ezzan’s body, refusing to let xem go. The Weaver gives It a pinch to make It behave, and her gaunt face twists in displeasure at the spider’s misbehaviour.

“Look up and open your mouth.”

I try, but I can’t. My body, like Ezzan’s, is stiff. I’m paralyzed by fear until a cold chill pierces my mind and Weaver Neshaye compels me to obey.

My mouth is agape by its own accord, my face feels how I’d expect a mask of pain and terror to look like and I’m forced to stare ahead, to the vaulted, cobweb-cloaked ceiling.

Above me, the spider living in Ezzan scrambles, trying to break out of Its bonds while It can, but the Weaver is quicker, and with a swift motion, her fingers plunge down my throat. The metal is cold but It is very warm. I revel in the knowledge that now part of Ezzan will always be within me, but I wish my last words before eternal silence could’ve been xyr name.

I silently choke down the spider, until I feel It settle somewhere deep inside my rib cage, readying Its new nest close to my still-beating heart.

I barely have the time to process the reality of my new guest, when I see a shape loom above me, past Weaver Neshaye’s mummified head.

Our Matron, come to reclaim one of Her spiderlings.

I know She’ll make good use of Ezzan, despite xyr state, despite how badly the foul priests have maimed xem. Xe was a strong soldier, a prized general, a devoted subject of Our Matron. Xe will sustain a legion. But we have few ways to resist The Awakening. For now.

I want to believe we can find ways to challenge it, to conquer the world of the Waking Ones, to destroy Illinor the Coward and his ilk. Our Matron will guide us to victory, and force their world to submit to the web’s design. Everything will be shrouded in silken ropes, the bodies of our enemies encrusted with eggs ready for hatching. Ezzan has done xyr part, and I intend to do the same.

At the edges of my vision, She descends to feast on what’s left of xyr body, and in the silence each snap of Her mandibles is like an explosion. I try not to think about the act itself, about the process of digesting the person I’ve loved the most. Of Ezzan’s bones dissolving, xyr flesh melting. I try thinking about the grand plan, of our purpose, but it’s hard to drown out the sounds of Her web being spun, even though Weaver Neshaye’s body blocks the view.

I lay still, until I see Her long legs climbing backwards to the ceiling, Her precious prize tucked into a bundle of silver string.

I owe it to Ezzan to stay and witness as the hordes of spiderlings rush in from every crevice, from behind every strand to assault xyr sac and begin to feed upon xem.

It takes Them not very long at all, but to me, paralyzed in fear and awe, it’s an eternity. Xyr remains finally sucked dry, the spiderlings hide once more, and the ceiling with its mantle of white-grey lace goes still. Everything is silent, until Weaver Neshaye communicates with me, soundlessly yet full of unflinching resolve, “Come, you have much to learn.”


End file.
